Like a red rag to a bull.

Do you remember the personal development talks at school? The ones where they told you about the changes your body was going through and how you were becoming a woman? Remember the talks about “menstruation”?

That neat little diagram of a pair of ovaries, a set of fallopian tubes, a pretty little uterus?

Remember how they didn’t mention the non-physical aspects of getting your rag?

Here’s a heads up young readers – getting your period is so much more than your body expelling an unfertilised egg. So much more. For some of us there are issues of ovulation pain and crankiness, then there is the pre-menstrual zone of blazing anger sometimes coupled with a need to clean usurped only by that of a woman about to give birth, which is ironic really, when you think about it.

Then there is the bloodfest itself – a dear friend of mine alerted me to the world of Day 2 which I believe is only rivalled by that of Day 3. Those two days are when I am basically a white female Jules Winnfield about to strike vengeance into anyone who so much as looks at me in a way I find not pleasing. Or pulls left to turn right. Or slows to an almost stop before pulling into a turning lane or to turn a corner. Or offers a running commentary on what I’m doing. Or states the fucking obvious about what I’m doing. Or fights with their brother one.more.time. You see where this is going. You don’t even need to have a pulse to raise my ire.

When I wrote this my period arrived that night.

Today, Day 2, I washed the hallway walls. THE FUCKING WALLS. AND one of the bathrooms. AND vacuumed. AND made a cake and creamed rice for dessert. And I cried. A lot. I cried on the phone to the health insurance company working out how much we had to pay to reignite our policy, realising we didn’t have that much. That poor poor woman. She was so lovely. Then I cried because Oscar was doing his weird rude-vaguely aggro-lalala routine which makes me want to stab either him or myself with a fork. Then Felix and Jasper and Grover all noticed that I was crying and asked if I was alright and volunteered up hugs which made me cry some more. Then my stepmother rang and OH MY GOD I just bawled and bawled on her. I’ve cried a few more times since then and eaten enough creamed rice that I’m sure it will make pretty patterns in the sand at tomorrow morning’s SOFT SAND RUNNING training session.

Day 2 mother fuckers.

To keep everyone on their toes it appears I roll on a 2 monthly routine of bat-shit crazy. Last month my period arrived with barely a whimper and I carried on like a (relatively) normal human being. The month before that it was a miracle we all made it out alive. And here we stand. Bat-shit crazy once more.

On top of that it hurts to ovulate. I am getting pimples as bad as 1987 and let’s not talk about the flow. Holy bejeebus it’s like a massacre down there.

My therapeutic doses of fish oil and evening primrose and vitamin b do go some way to even the keel just a little. But I took my eye off the prize this month with the evening primrose and suspect the lack thereof is contributing to the delightful unfurling of events here at club allconsuming.

My GP confirmed a while back that the older you get the more issues you get – it’s like the whole becoming a woman in reverse. It was a bastard when it started then you find some uneasy truce for 20 years or so and then BANG it totally bitch-slaps you into place.

I wonder if anyone will hand this out to young women during personal development classes: So ladies, here’s what’s going to happen to you physically (cue: diagram) and here’s what’s going to happen to you emotionally (cue: you are SO SCREWED).

 

Do you go crackers when the egg is leaving the building? Do you have a Day 2 (or 3)?

 

Onward.